What I Can't Carry
by chemm80
Summary: If an inclination toward mysticism is Sam's worst lasting effect, then Dean's grateful. He's grateful to have Sam here, period. Rated T for bad language very slight


The title is from the song, "My Little Man" by Ozzy.

My Little Man (Ozzy Osbourne)

_Don't you know I love you more than life itself,_

_Don't you know that you're my pride_

_And I would not have you walking through this world._

_Without me by your side_

_Go to sleep my little man_

_Don't you weep my little man_

_I'd like to keep you with me all your life,_

_But I know I can't do that_

_So I must try to teach you wrong from right,_

_To keep the vulture from your back_

_Go to sleep my little man_

_Don't you weep my little man_

_And when you're dreaming you can talk to angels,_

_So wipe the tears from your eyes_

_And if there's demons that try to steal your breath away._

_You can't believe that, know my spirit will be standing by your side_

_You saved me, you gave me, the greatest gift of all_

_Believe me, believe, there ain't no mountain that's too tall_

_I will gladly carry your cross for you,_

_To take your pain away_

_But what I can't carry is my love for you,_

_Beyond my dying day_

_So be strong my little man_

_When I'm gone my little man_

_You got to be my little man_

_So don't you weep my little man_

_Go to sleep my little man_

_Don't you weep my little man_

_You got to be my little man_

_So don't you weep my little man_

The snow has been cleared from the road, scraped back and heaped in dirty, stoop-shouldered piles that curl in on themselves on either side of the nighttime silver-black of the asphalt like ocean waves, as if they might collapse and wash back across the roadway any minute. The bloated harvest moon hovers dead center of the road, tinged with streaks of bloody red, like some kind of portent. Dean barely needs the headlights.

"A woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet," Sam mutters.

It startles Dean a little, both because Sam's eyeing the freaky moon that Dean doesn't really like the look of, and because Sam just doesn't talk that often anymore. Sam doesn't look at Dean while he's speaking, or when he's done, either—just sits forward-facing and almost unnaturally still, so that Dean could almost think he imagined him saying anything at all.

Dean watches Sam out of the corner of his eye. It's not like the kid's ever been exactly normal by Dean's measure, but he's been even more prone to somber moods—more likely to make these spontaneous cryptic pronouncements—since they left the hospital than he ever was before.

Like Dean has most of the other times, he lets this last little gem pass with a noncommittal grunt. If an inclination toward mysticism is Sam's worst lasting effect, then Dean's grateful.

He's grateful to have Sam here, period.

Sam's crazy-thick hair has grown out to cover the bald spot, the scar where they opened up his skull to relieve the pressure. Dean always feels sick to his stomach when he thinks about that part, but in reality Sam looks pretty good, surprisingly peaceful and rested. Dean guesses spending weeks in a hospital bed will do that for you, and then on the heels of that thought comes another: _Typical. A Winchester's gotta be in a goddamned coma to catch up on his sleep._

Dean's mouth twitches briefly with something that isn't quite a smile, and he shakes off the memory. They're rolling, winding on down the road, as close to normal as they're ever gonna get, and they've each got someone to watch their backs.

That's a lot better than nothing.

His phone rumbles loud in the stillness of the car, but Sam doesn't react, even after Dean answers it.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Hey, kid. How's it goin'?"

Bobby says it tiredly, with a sort of wary note like he isn't sure how Dean's going to react to the innocuous question. Which Dean supposes is fair enough in their line of work at the best of times.

"Goin' about eighty and smooth," Dean answers. "What's up?"

"Got a job down in Shreveport. Possible zombie infestation. You interested?"

"When am I not interested in killing zombies, Bobby?"

Bobby snorts softly, then just starts rattling off information, addresses and names. Dean makes a writing motion at Sam, signaling for pen and paper. Sam ignores him. Dean rolls his eyes.

Dean finally digs the stub of a pencil out of the inside pocket of his jacket and scribbles what he can onto a dirty gas receipt. Then he ends the call and keeps driving. They're heading south anyway, in the right general direction, and that's good enough for a start.

"So, Shreveport," Dean says finally, just to break the silence, "…it's been a while, huh? When was the last time we put down a zombie, anyway? Jacksonville?"

Sam turns his head and looks at Dean then, and really, that's mainly what Dean was going for, some actual response from Sam, even if it's just simple eye contact.

"You need to be careful on this one, Dean," Sam says gravely, then adds, "I mean it," even though Dean hasn't offered any argument.

It's a little weird, Sam telling him that outright, like Dean isn't always as careful as he's going to get, but Dean figures a weird response is better than none. Silence is what he gets at least half the time when he talks to his brother now, anyway. Which is mostly why Dean doesn't bother to make any smart-ass remark to deflect the concern in Sam's voice.

Dean lets a lot of things go nowadays, doesn't sweat the small stuff anymore. Being told your brother is brain-damaged kind of puts things into perspective.

Perspective. Dean welcomes some of that, because he's pretty sure he went off the rails for a while there, right after they told him how bad Sam really was, and he doesn't actually remember a lot about that period of time, before they left the hospital. His recollection consists mostly of images, fragments.

Dean remembers sitting next to the bed of a silent stranger who looked only vaguely like his brother, with his shaved head and slack mouth, covered with tubes and electrodes and bandages. He remembers hearing the murmur of soft footsteps and feminine voices in the background. But mostly he remembers his mind replaying the accident in vivid Technicolor, over and over: Sam hitting the wall, thrown across the room by the monster that wasn't supposed to be there, that Dean swore was hibernating…_easy kill, Sammy, like shooting fish in a barrel…_

And the electronic beep of the heart monitor that sounded more and more like II told you so, I told you so/i with each passing day. He remembers that, too.

Dean comes back to the present with a shiver and looks at Sam again, wonders what's going on in Sam's even-freakier-than-before brain. He has no idea why Sam would feel the need to be so emphatic about this particular case. Not like he's researched it or anything like that—Sam doesn't research at all anymore. Bobby keeps them busy, though, dispatching them on a steady stream of fairly straightforward hunts without letting up, like it's his mission in life or something.

Not that Dean isn't glad for it. Free time is overrated, if you ask Dean.

Sam hasn't asked.

The moon is rising in all its fat, cheesy-white glory when they climb over the cemetery gates the next night. Dean's recon from that afternoon didn't turn up anything very ominous, so he's actually feeling pretty okay about the job.

Full moon, monsters to hunt—life is good.

"Single zombie…no sweat," Dean whispers, more because he hasn't been able to completely shake off Sam's warning from yesterday than because he thinks Sam needs to be reminded. Dean doesn't really expect a response and he doesn't get one, but he can feel Sam hovering just behind his right shoulder. Sam's unarmed, but Dean's used to that now too, so that's all right.

Their silent approach catches the zombie just inside the door of a mausoleum, nasty crunching sounds echoing around the space inside before they drift out the opening.

"Hey, Brainface," Dean yells, and the creature straightens up, snarling.

Dean sights in on its nose, or where the nose should be, as the thing scuttles toward them, gabbling and slobbering, ignoring Dean's gun. Dean wonders briefly, and not for the first time, if zombies are so jazzed for brains because they're so stupid—sort of an "opposites attract" deal—before he blows the things head cleanly off its decaying body.

If you can call anything that disgusting "clean".

He's just lowered his 12-guage when Sam shouts, "Dean! Behind you!"

Dean turns and fires, dropping the first mook's buddy headless into the dirt, and Dean grins, even as he's scanning for new threats. Finding none, he turns back to Sam, who's sporting a relieved grin. It's a rare thing, that smile, even more so than it used to be, and Dean has to resist the urge to slap him on the shoulder.

Sam doesn't like to be touched these days.

Dean settles for a relieved laugh, says, "Thanks, dude. My ass wouldn't look half as pretty with a hunk bitten out of it."

Sam rolls his eyes and turns toward the car. Dean's satisfied enough, both with the job and with Sam's reaction to the admittedly lame remark.

These days, an eye-roll is worth a thousand words.

Dean's sitting in a bar waiting for Sam to finish his business. _Guy spends more time in the bathroom than most females, I swear._

It's never a good idea to hang around after you've hustled a place and Sam knows it. Not that Sam does any hustling anymore, really, but Dean feels easier about doing it himself knowing that Sam's watching from the corner, that Sam's got his back if it all goes south somehow.

Dean downs the rest of his beer and pulls out his phone, thinks about calling Sam and telling him to hurry up so that they can get out of here. He's tired. Dean flips the phone open and the screen is flashing a message that his voice mailbox is full.

It's not like this is surprising information. Dean ignores most calls except for Bobby's and he honestly can't remember the last time he checked his mailbox, but he's just sitting here killing time anyway, so he dials it up. He sorts through the messages, skims over the bulk of them, most of the names and numbers meaningless to him, but there are three from Ellen, all left over the last couple of weeks. Dean sighs and opens the last message.

"Dean...where've you been, boy? I know things aren't exactly…well, whatever." There's a pause, and she sighs. "You could come around once in a while. Or at least answer your phone. Call me, goddamn it."

But he doesn't call and he knows he isn't going to—knows they won't go to the Roadhouse either. It's too much before, too many memories and expectations for him and Sam both, a lot of nasty sludge that's finally settled to the bottom of the pond. They're doing all right—why stir the shit?

Dean shoves his phone back in his pocket and he startles when he sees Sam standing next to the table, eyebrows raised, innocent look on his face like he's been there all along.

"You need to get ready. It's almost time," Sam says.

It sounds like Sam's talking about more than just vacating the bar, but he doesn't say any more and Dean doesn't ask. He just gets up, throws some money on the table, and walks to the car.

They've been at Bobby's for three days, drinking his whiskey and eating his greasy fried-egg sandwiches. Bobby's company is the kind they can both deal with: very little talking and no demands on them at all.

Dean is under the Impala checking the grease seals while the used oil drains into a drip pan when he hears Bobby's boots scrape against the gravel. He slides out and hauls himself to his feet, leaning a hip against the workbench and wiping his hands on a rag. It seems unusually hot out here to Dean, but he can't quite put his finger on what month it is, so who knows? He swipes at the sweat on his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

Bobby props himself next to Dean and folds his arms, like he's just there to take the sun, but there's a tension in the set of his shoulders, and Dean waits him out, knows he has something to say. Also knows Bobby will talk when he's ready.

Bobby clears his throat after a few too-long seconds, and the sound alone tells Dean that Bobby is about to say something that he doesn't really like. That Dean won't like, either.

"So, about Sam…" Bobby pauses, sighs deeply. "I ain't one to tell you how to deal with something like this, God knows, but you…I don't…it don't seem like you are. Dealin' with it, I mean." Bobby stops, looking away.

Dean swallows hard.

"What are you talking about," Dean says through gritted teeth, but even he knows it doesn't really come out sounding like a question, because he knows. And Bobby knows Dean knows, but he pushes it a little further anyway.

"This thing with Sam, you can't keep up like this, Dean…you gotta make your peace with it somehow…"

"Just stop," Dean says, trying to breathe slow and even. "I really don't want to have to hit you, Bobby, so just stop right there."

Bobby does, and Dean won't look at him, doesn't want to see the hurt in Bobby's eyes—or worse, sympathy—thinks that would take him apart right now and he can't have that. He needs to stay strong. iSam/i needs him to. He doesn't need to know what Dean's thinking, how much he worries sometimes.

Dean can't let Sam down. _Again._

Bobby stands there for another minute, then sighs, gives a barely perceptible nod. Then he just walks away.

Dean looks out over the cars in the yard, letting the sunlight that glances off the mirrors and chrome lance harshly into his eyes until he can tell himself that's the reason they're stinging and watering. He rubs at them with the heel of his hand. When he looks up again, Sam is there.

"I know you remember, Dean. One twenty-four, " Sam says.

Dean turns away.

They're on the road again, headed toward a possible poltergeist in Sikeston, Missouri. Dean doesn't think it's much of a case, but it was time to leave Bobby's and it made a good enough excuse, even if it does feel like he's running from something.

It's dark and Dean's driving with the window down because he likes to, likes the way the scent of the passing countryside is just a little stronger on the night breeze than on the daytime wind, as if the sunlight somehow bleaches the smells from the air. Sam always bitches about it, says it's too noisy, and Dean ribs him about being worried that it'll mess up his hairdo. Dean likes that part, too.

His phone rings.

"Mr. Stockton?" a female voice says, and Dean's blood runs cold at the fake name. There's a roaring in his ears from more than just the slipstream, and his vision is starting to sparkle around the edges when he finally wrestles the car to a stop on the side of the road.

"Mr. Stockton, are you there? Hello?" the woman says, in a tone that suggests she's already said it a few times.

"Yeah," Dean answers, finally, or tries to, but his voice doesn't seem to be working very well. He tries again.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Sir, this is Emily at the Wharton Convalescent Home. There's been a change. You should come."

Dean has no memory of how he got here, made it across the miles between Bobby's and this place—how he made it up the goddamned sidewalk, for Christ's sake—but somehow he's standing at a nurse's station being eyed sympathetically by a plump, fifty-something woman in scrubs, trying to remember what name he should give her, how to act, how to breathe.

Except he does remember this place.

"Sam Stockton?" he finally dredges up, and she smiles, brightens with recognition.

_Of course, you must be his brother, I'm so glad you're here, Dr. Reed wants to talk to you_… she's babbling, but Dean loses track, just follows her down the hall until she stops in front of a door. Room 124.

Dean opens the door, thinks randomly that he wishes he'd eaten something recently, because he'd kind of like to throw up now.

There's no question it's Sam in the bed, long hair lying dark against the white of the pillow under his head. His eyes are open, but they're not seeing Dean, not looking at anything, just staring into space.

Dean loses it.

_Yes, Mr. Stockton, your brother's opened his eyes, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's awake…there has been some evidence of brain activity all along, I told you that when you were here the last time…prognosis?…no, we don't know anything more…_

Dean stands at the window of Sam's room, staring out at the disturbingly green and manicured hospital grounds, listening to the even breathing in the bed behind him. It's loud, really. Funny how he never realized he was missing that sound, these last few weeks. Or is it months?

Dean's been called a lunatic any number of times in his life, but this is the first time he's really thought it was probably true. He's lost time, been hallucinating, hearing voices, and God knows what else. He's surprised Bobby or somebody didn't have him locked up, much less let him run around the countryside with a goddamned gun in his hand. Christ.

But he guesses that's all over now. There's no way he can go back out there, go back to the world, to hunting, with things like they are. Even if he weren't totally emptied of volition, his capacity for caring about anything or anyone completely cauterized, he wouldn't trust himself. It had all seemed so real. Sam had.

Dean wonders how long he can reasonably stay here. He watches the traffic pass by, the occasional patient being pushed around the grounds by a uniformed figure and thinks again, _it's all over_. Staying here, it's standing vigil in Death's waiting room. It's just putting off the inevitable, but he'll do it for a while anyway, for Sam's sake. Or that's what Dean tells himself. Seems like he's pretty good at that.

His mind gradually quiets and he thinks about what Bobby said to him, about making peace, and Dean wonders if this is what he meant.

"Dean."

Dean hears it, but he's heard Sam call his name before. He watches his lips curl slightly in the reflection of the window glass. It's a sad, almost nostalgic smile, and he thinks, _that's it. The end._

The sound comes again, but it's different this time—raspy, like someone trying to force words through a dry throat. Like whoever it is hasn't spoken for a really long time.

"Dean."

Dean turns around.


End file.
